by HELEN HARDT
Right now, that meant getting a hell of a lot more information about the damn van.
Garrett clenched back his impatience in order to prompt Zeke as calmly as he could, “What did the paint look like, Z?”
Zeke turned and looked at him. Damn. His friend’s eyes were hollow, his lips tight. Maybe things with Z and Rayna had proceeded faster than he assumed. Garrett felt shitty for his friend, though on a selfish level, misery did love company. And goddamnit, he was sick with misery. He couldn’t lose Sage again. He wouldn’t. If he had to, he’d rip this fucking city apart to find her.
“The paint looked…feminine.” The last word left Z like it was the zinger in a whodunit plot. Garrett didn’t get the significance. But Zeke sure as hell seemed to. His gaze ignited like he’d become Fort Lewis’s answer to Sherlock Holmes.
“Feminine?” Wyatt echoed. He was clearly as nonplussed as Garrett.
“Yeah,” Z returned.
“What the fuck?” Garrett muttered.
“I’m serious. It looked like a tampon box.”
“What the fuck?”
“It looked airbrushed. Lavender and pink. There was a pair of hands touching along the side, and…” He stared across the street, again pulling the Sherlock Holmes act. “There was a white cat laying across the back wheel well.”
“A white what?”
“A white cat. That’s really weird.”
“Thanks for clearing that up, man.”
Wyatt stomped back onto the sidewalk. “This isn’t the time for jokes, son.”
“No, sir.” Zeke began to pace again. This time, his strides were wide and strong—and excited. “No joke at all. Just a lot of pieces sliding together.”
“Awesome,” Garrett inserted. “You want to enlighten us now?”
Z spun back toward them, arms folded, determination stamped across his face. “The paint job wasn’t real.”
“Huh?” Wyatt grunted.
Garrett narrowed his gaze as comprehension kicked in. “You mean it was a wrap?”
Zeke nodded. Wyatt threw a frown at both of them. “A what?” the man asked.
“An automotive body wrap, Uncle. They use them a lot around the city, mostly on buses, as advertising gimmicks. They have special machinery that can laser print an image onto plastic wrap that’s adhered to the bus, turning it into a rolling billboard.”
“After the campaign or event is over, the plastic is peeled off,” Z finished.
“We’ve been toying a little with the technology on our ops vehicles, but the wrap is still a little prissy. It doesn’t like dirt.”
“Small problem there,” Z confirmed.
Wyatt snorted. “So the pussies were only pretending to have pussies. And that van is sitting somewhere now, decked in a completely different design.”
Zeke snorted. “I’d bet my left nut on it.”
“Fuck,” Wyatt gritted.
“Seconding that,” Garrett added. He looked back to Zeke. “How does this get us anywhere, man?”
Zeke’s face resembled a kid about to go on his first roller coaster. Sheer excitement and blatant nausea warred for control of his features. “Because I wasn’t looking at the hundredth ad for the balloon festival on that van. The art was custom—hand-painted.”
“Still in the dark, dude. There are a lot of artists in this city.”
“And they’re all sitting in their studios with the extra flow to buy one of those big-ass machines that makes the wrap panels, right?”
A jolt of new energy made Garrett surge forward. “Hell. That sure thinned out the haystack.”
“I’ll give you one better.” Again, that weird mix of feelings rolled across his friend’s face. Zeke looked ready to do a touchdown dance and then puke about it. “I think I can find our needle.”
* * *
This was their needle?
Garrett swung glances up and down the narrow passageway alley in which they stood. At least that was what he called it for the time being. Truthfully, “alley” would’ve been an upgrade. “Ambush Zone” was feeling more in line with the area’s scuzzy vibe. Some instincts were pounded into a guy’s brain cells forever, and Garrett’s had gone Mach five from the alarm bells in his.
Luckily, he felt more normal when he caught Wyatt doing his own surreptitious recon. Z didn’t add his own trepidation to their paranoid batter. These alleys had been the man’s childhood playground. Beyond that factor, his friend was clearly familiar with this specific address—though like its neighborhood, the word “address” was given a wide berth for definition here.
Z reached for a spot behind the grimy door frame and pressed in. The hidden doorbell let off a series of bell chimes inside the building, making the place sound like a cathedral being readied for worshippers.
“Should I have worn a tie?” Garrett cracked.
Zeke let out a dark laugh. “Only if you want her to whip it off your neck, braid it into a whip, and then beg you to open her up with it.”
Wyatt coughed. “This should be interesting.”
Two seconds later, a woman’s toned arm shoved open the door. Tattooed angels and demons danced their way up it, reaching for another piece of ink that took up the top of her shoulder—a diamond wrapped in thorny roses. Garrett’s gaze was distracted from the artwork by a face that was surrounded by a sleek mane of ebony hair broken up by silver and lavender streaks. In spite of all the distractions, the woman’s face was striking. She used minimal makeup, which was a good thing. Her huge purple eyes, prominent bone structure, and full mouth didn’t need much enhancement.
At the moment, that mouth curved up at Zeke in a grin that truly defined the cat about to eat the canary. The metaphor wasn’t tough to come by, considering the woman wore a skintight black outfit—and had Zeke responding with a very visual gulp.
“Well,” she finally murmured. “Ezekiel Gabriel Hayes. What’s an angel like you doing in my naughty corner of hell?”
Before Garrett could let out half a snort of derision, Zeke horse-kicked backward. His heel caught Garrett’s shin with perfect precision.
Without skipping a beat, he lifted the woman’s knuckles to his lips and replied, “Luna honey, my halo got shot off before I busted my sixteenth birthday.”
He dropped her hand, but determination didn’t just live in the woman’s gaze. Luna latched a finger into the V of Zeke’s shirt. “What about my horns?”
Garrett joined Wyatt in stunned silence as the woman lifted an angular leg and wrapped it around Z’s waist. For a moment, Garrett wondered why this woman’s name had never left his best friend’s lips, even after the three years of their friendship. That was before he caught the terse lines of his friend’s face along with the invisible screws that tightened Z’s jaw. Understanding formed. Garrett had heard about Luna, though not by name. She was—how the hell did Z put it?—a “unique” sort of girl. A submissive with appetites that were beyond the edge coupled with a personality that didn’t have a proper off switch. Z had actually shuddered when talking about girls like her. Their refusal to call a safe word could land an unsuspecting Dom behind bars for abuse, assault and battery—maybe even murder.
Zeke grabbed Luna by the waist and pried her off. “I think it best we keep your horns safely tucked away, girl.”
She narrowed her eyes, flashing an energy that really did seem a little demonic, before pivoting toward him and Wyatt. “Maybe your friends want to see them.”
“No.” Z tightened his hold on her waist, keeping her in place. “They don’t.”
Garrett held up his left hand. “Engaged.”
Wyatt copied the move. “Married.”
“Hell,” Luna spat.
Garrett couldn’t help it any longer. He looked at his watch with a grunt. “We’re at ninety minutes and climbing, Z.”
Luna scrunched her lips. “What’s his issue?”
“I’m afraid it’s one I share,” Z offered in a more diplomatic tone. “I need to talk to you.”
Luna
tossed her hair over both shoulders. “Fine. Talk.”
“Inside.”
“No. Here.”
Z rose up over her, looming like a damn grizzly about to bite her head off. “Inside.”
The woman’s reaction was a surprise plot twist. With one growl, Zeke turned the intrepid, leg-flinging woman into a weak-kneed kitten. Her eyelids drooped. Her lips parted on a breathy, “Yes, Sir.” She turned like a dancer in a daydream, leading the three of them inside the building.
As Garrett had hoped, the warehouse’s interior looked like a typical artist’s studio. Canvases both finished and blank were stacked along the textured plaster walls. Several easels, lots of tarps, and racks of paints cluttered the rest of the area. A loft overhead was shielded by gauzy curtains, but he discerned a big bed and kitchen area through them. And curled up in a puddle of the curtains? A sleeping white cat.
There were two elements in the scene that fit the circle-what-doesn’t-belong-here option. Suspended from a heavy chain directly over Luna’s workspace was a pair of thick leather suspension handcuffs. Even Garrett could tell the bondage gear had gotten some enthusiastic use. But that discovery was secondary to the jackpot they all spied at the other end of the room. Without second thought, Garrett joined Zeke in sprinting over to it.
The machine wasn’t an ordinary printer. It resembled a space-age weaving loom, though it was twice the size of its medieval ancestor. It measured a little over four feet long and was about as high. A sheet of clean plastic film was preloaded into it—but just beyond the machine, still littered across the expanse of empty floor in front of a rolling garage door, were slivers of the vinyl that had been part of the previous print job. Every single one of them was pink or lavender.
“Thank fuck,” Garrett muttered.
“Not yet,” Zeke retorted. The guy’s jaw turned to gritted granite again. He pitched his voice back into a bellow at the woman pouting at them from across the room. “Luna!”
She sashayed closer. “Yes, dear?”
Z pointed at the vinyl confetti. “Who were they?”
“Who were who?”
“You didn’t pay for this printer yourself, honey. Somebody brought it here so they could take advantage of your talent and your work space. They had you design a custom wrap for a van, didn’t they?”
Luna tilted her head up at him with a soft smile that made her feline features even more stunning. Holy shit, this space queen was dangerous. Garrett was just glad that Zeke knew it.
“You…think I have talent?”
“As I’ve told you a thousand times,” Z responded patiently. He took a deep breath as Luna pressed herself to him, purring in what was supposed to be gratitude. “Luna, let me be clear. We don’t have time. I need those names. Now.”
She threw him another bratty pout. “Who says I even knew who they were?”
That was it. The latch on Garrett’s tolerance broke off. “Goddamnit.” He rushed forward. “Listen, Morticia Addams, the lives of three women are at stake here. Maybe that makes a difference to you?”
Luna glared. “Damn. He needs to get laid.”
“Hawk,” Z interjected. “Just chill.”
Garrett pinned a glower into his friend. “You want to get Rayna off that express boat for Bangkok or not?”
Zeke pushed out a tense groan. Garrett realized, too late, that his galloping temper had pulled out one too many stones in Morticia’s castle ramparts.
“Who’s Rayna?” she snapped at Z.
Z’s lips flattened. “Just a woman I’ve been watching over for work. Don’t ask me anything more, Luna. You know I can’t talk about my job.”
She nodded. Very quickly. The line clearly wasn’t new to her, and neither was the pained glimmer in her eyes because of it. “And now this ‘just a woman’ is in trouble, thanks to the van I wrapped today.”
“Yes.” Zeke cupped his hands around hers. Just that motion seemed to push some button in Luna. The woman gazed up as if CNN had just informed the planet that the universe revolved around Zeke Hayes. Z reacted by stepping closer to her, his posture filled with determination. Garrett released a quiet but admiring breath. Z just earned a shitload of check marks on the steel balls rating sheet. To endure that crazy stalker glint in Luna’s eyes, in hopes she’d simply spill a couple of scumbags’ names to him…took fucking fortitude. It also served as crystal-clear proof of what Rayna had started to mean to the man.
Unfortunately, Garrett wasn’t the only one to recognize that.
“You like her.” Luna’s words were smoky rasps, the edges smoking with accusation. “Don’t you, Z? You like her a lot.”
Zeke weighed the question. Though the canyons of his face changed little, storm clouds of conflict raced across them. “Yeah,” he finally replied. “Yeah, baby girl. I do.”
Luna nodded again. Her move lacked confidence this time. She shifted on her high-heeled boots, making Garrett marvel for a second. How she didn’t fall on her face in those things was beyond his mental scope. Another surprise—how the hell she managed to get her hands stuffed into her back pockets after pulling them from Z’s grasp. The leggings looked like another custom cling vinyl job.
“Is he being straight up?” She nodded in Garrett’s direction. “Is her life really at stake?”
“If that boat they’ve got her on leaves American waters, then, yes.” He watched Z’s shoulders slump from that. He couldn’t remember ever seeing his friend so vulnerable. “She won’t be dead, but she’ll wish she was.”
Luna absorbed that with an impassive expression. But she kept up that balance-changing thing, which made Garrett as nervous as watching a tightrope walker. If she fell and split her head, they’d be up Shit Creek. It was reassuring to see Wyatt eyeing her with the same trepidation.
He planted his feet and shoved down his anxiety. The faster Morticia processed this, the better. He saw that deep inside the gothic pain-slut exterior, Luna seemed to have a heart. The trouble was, it clearly yearned for Zeke’s in return.
At last, Luna snapped her chin at Z. The new look on her face made Garrett want to grab his friend and yank him back, just in case the woman was secretly packing another pair of those handcuffs. Likely both. Was it possible for a woman to simultaneously want a guy’s heart on a plate and his dick between her thighs?
Her lips twisted with determination. “If I give you the names, I want something in return.”
Zeke responded to that with a soft laugh, though there wasn’t a thread of humor in the sound. “I bet you do.”
“So we have a deal?”
Zeke stared at the woman like a convicted man in front of an electric chair. “Yeah, baby girl. We have a deal.”
Luna lifted one side of her mouth, wrapped her arms around Z’s neck, and pulled him down for a lingering lip-lock. “You want to use whips or floggers?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Zeke’s voice matched the brutal jerks he used to get away from her. “You know I’m going to open you up with either.”
She ran both hands up her thighs, as if to spread out the heat from her delighted shiver. “Yes, Sir!”
“The names, Luna. Now.”
Five minutes later, the three of them threw their asses back into Garrett’s truck. Wyatt had barely closed his door before Garrett peeled away from the curb. Z was already on the line to Franzen, requesting every shred of information on the tampon-van boys that the Feds could get their hands on.
“Cut a right ahead,” Z ordered him. “I have a buddy down the street who’ll let us use his place until we spin up a plan for catching up with those cocksuckers.”
“Check.” Garrett whipped the truck onto Harrison. After setting the course straight, he glanced over at his friend. “Did you just agree to what I think you did?”
“Yes,” Z snapped. “And if you mention it again, I’ll turn your balls into shark chum.” The guy checked his phone for an update from Franz. His punch against the dashboard relayed the negative result. “Let’s just get our shit
together and find our women before it’s too fucking late.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Eat!”
Sage looked up at the guy who spat the order at her and slipped him a curious stare. The kid needed a haircut and a shave. Hell, he needed to be out enjoying his summer break or flipping burgers so he could take his girl out this weekend. What the crap was he doing with a SIG P238 shoved in her face, wearing a glower that belonged on an asshole three times his age? And more importantly, why did she care?
Because her mind, now as drained as her body, was finally giving in to anguish.
Yeah, the pom poms were unraveling. Her desperate efforts to keep them glued together were failing with every passing minute. She felt her spirit paying the price, standing in a pile of torn hopes, shattered courage, and the stabbing shards of one undeniable truth.
The night had come. The guys hadn’t. The morning had come. The guys still hadn’t.
Now this goon-in-training was trying to tell her that refusing a roast beef sandwich was going to earn her a bullet in the skull. Seriously?
“Sage.” Josie’s voice came at her ear, still not wavering from its plane of reassuring calm. The woman had either popped a bottle of Quaaludes yesterday in place of tasting wine with them or she had nerves molded of steel. “You need to eat, sweetie. You didn’t have any breakfast.”
Sage stared back up at the gun. The hollow hole might as well have been a mirror. She felt just as black and empty. Fate had finally gotten her home, finally with Garrett again, and she’d wasted every second of the blessing. She’d spent the time playing head games with him, being so impatient to “fix” him that she’d missed the most important part of finding him again…of being a real submissive to him.
